


Inevitable

by adayofjoy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Good thing they're both pretty, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious spies in love, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 18:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adayofjoy/pseuds/adayofjoy
Summary: Napoleon Solo did not believe in soul mates.Or rather he did, but he had no interest in finding his own nor did he believe he was ever likely to do so.He was determined to be his own person despite the blood red Cyrillic that curled down his rib cage like a cattle brand.Napoleon had no interest in seeking out Illya Kuryakin. In fact, if he ever met him, Napoleon was determined to do everything in his power to drive him away.





	Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> So I thought I would try my hand at a soul mate AU. I fully intended for this fic to be short and purely fluffy, but my hand slipped and 12 000 words of angsty pining happened. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Napoleon Solo did not believe in soul mates.

Or rather he did, but he had no interest in finding his own nor did he believe he was ever likely to do so. Napoleon Solo was not destined for the glorified prison of monogamy. He had spent his life living by his own terms until the disastrous heist that led to his capture by the CIA.

He was determined to be his own person despite the blood red Cyrillic that curled down his rib cage like a cattle brand.

Soul mates were for other people, specifically the legions of the needy and desperate who spent their lives searching for their so-called other halves.

Napoleon had no interest in seeking out Illya Kuryakin. In fact, if he ever met him, Napoleon was determined to do everything in his power to drive him away.

*

Illya Kuryakin had been a literal pain in Napoleon’s side for his entire life.

The telepathic nature of soul mate bonds meant that any pain inflicted on a person’s soul mate was replicated through the other person’s soul mark burning. More than once throughout his childhood Napoleon had woken in bed to find his soul mark prickling painfully as if the peculiar red curls of his tattoo were being stabbed by a thousand needles.

By the time Napoleon was a teenager that pain had grown progressively worse although he had learned to grit his teeth and endure it. His soul mate had clearly progressed from the fleeting childhood pain of grazed knees to something else altogether.

At first he had been concerned for his unknown soul mate. What kind of life did they have if they were subjected to pain so frequently?

Napoleon took it upon himself to learn Russian so he could decode the alien letters that trailed down his left-hand side. As a child he spent hours at the library, pouring over the limited selection of dusty books on Russian language and culture. Like all children he had been taught that having a soul mate was a wondrous thing. He had foolishly dreamed of finding a built-in best friend.

Napoleon’s family puzzled over the Cyrillic letters. His mother suggested that maybe Napoleon’s soul mate was a Russian immigrant. She said that if Napoleon were lucky then perhaps she would be living right under his nose in New York. Napoleon’s father interjected with a sly smile and suggested that maybe Napoleon would grow up to be an adventurer. Perhaps he would have to travel abroad to find her. The repeated use of the pronoun _her_ caused a note of unease to itch between Napoleon’s shoulder blades but he smiled at his parents and said nothing. 

When he was ten he stood on his toes and stared at his mark in the bathroom mirror. He clumsily traced the jagged lines and the curved edges of his mark until a facsimile was copied onto a piece of lined paper torn from his schoolbook. The next day he caught a bus to the St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox Cathedral on 97th street.

He clutched his piece of paper and stared up at the domed roofline in awe. Once inside, Napoleon was overwhelmed by the sight of hundreds of long-stemmed candles, which illuminated the gilded icons that smiled down at him from the high ceilings.

He approached the old lady who sat at the visitor’s desk, hunched over a stack of forms. Napoleon recognised the strange lettering of Cyrillic on the piles of paper scattered across the desk and his heart leapt.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked politely, ‘could you please help me with something?’

The old lady looked up and peered at Napoleon from behind her wire-framed glasses. She smiled at him kindly.

‘Of course, my darling. How can I help?’

Her voice was saturated with a heavy accent and Napoleon wondered if his soul mate’s voice would carry the same clipped tones. He smiled at her and unfolded his piece of paper and spread it across the desk.

‘Could you please translate this into English for me? It’s very important.’

She gave him a curious look before squinting down at the letters and scratching across the page with her biro. She handed the page back to him and Napoleon struggled to pronounce the words.

‘Ill-err? Curry-kin?’

‘Illya Kuryakin,’ the old lady corrected quickly before Napoleon could continue to butcher the name. ‘Is this for a school project?’

‘No, it’s my soul mate’s name,’ Napoleon responded proudly.

Her smile faltered and unease coiled in Napoleon’s stomach.

‘Oh,’ she said quietly, clearly surprised. ‘Illya Kuryakin is a boy’s name.’

A strange pulse of recognition clicked in Napoleon’s chest at the words. Somehow he was not surprised, but the discomfort on the old lady’s face made him wonder whether he should be. Silence stretched to fill the space between them and Napoleon hurriedly thanked her and left the church. He sat on the bus and marvelled at the words on the paper. He tried to push his apprehension to the back of his mind.

At dinner that night he proudly told his family about his excursion and produced the piece of paper to show them. His sisters passed it between themselves before passing it onto Napoleon’s grandmother and then his parents.

‘Isn’t Illya a boy’s name?’ Napoleon’s mother asked uncertainly. Napoleon’s father inhaled sharply.

‘The lady at the church said it was,’ Napoleon replied hesitantly as he stared down at his plate. His older sister started to giggle and he kicked her underneath the table.

‘That’s a sin in the eyes of the Lord,’ Napoleon’s Irish Catholic grandmother announced ominously. ‘You should stay away from your soul mate or you will go to Hell. Mark my words, boy.’

Napoleon held little affection for his crotchety, mean-spirited grandmother but he had always been taught by his parents to be respectful towards her. Yet a flare of fire unexpectedly billowed in his chest at her words and he found himself speaking back before he could stop himself.

‘Good,’ Napoleon replied stubbornly, ‘you can save me a place, Grandma.’

A tense silence descended upon the dinner table as everyone froze in their seats. Napoleon received a hiding from his father later that night for his disrespectful attitude. He was forced to begrudgingly apologise to his grandmother although he did not see why he should have to. The protective spark Napoleon had felt was only the instinctive desire to defend his soul mate.

Later that night as he lay in bed and tried not to think about his aching body, Napoleon wondered whether his soul mate’s mark was tingling in pain in that moment as his own so often did. Somehow his family reached an unspoken agreement to not discuss Napoleon’s soul mate again.

When Napoleon was seventeen he enlisted to join the army. Spurred by an unexpected patriotic urge, Napoleon imagined that he would encounter his soul mate while travelling the world and fighting for something he believed in. 

He entered the army with expectations of glory, heroism, and a fulfilled sense of purpose. Instead reality produced death, disease, and misery. His naivety quickly calcified into cynicism in the face of virus-ridden trenches and the sight of his new friends dying from bullet wounds or gangrene.

During the early years of the war Napoleon made sure to hide his soul mark. Having Cyrillic letters inscribed on his skin became dangerous once the Soviet Union signed the non-aggression pact with Nazi Germany. Napoleon didn’t need anyone questioning his loyalty or accusing him of being a spy.

As time passed, Napoleon grew secretly resentful of his soul mate’s propensity to injure himself. The searing pain in his side had become a constant distraction and Napoleon had enough things to deal with on the battlefield.

While death was imminent, the fanciful notion of saving himself for his soul mate quickly vanished. During cold nights in the army barracks Napoleon sought whatever pleasure he could with fellow lonely soldiers. He pushed the thought of his soul mate from his mind and decided to take whatever small joys life granted him while he had the chance. 

But he knew that his soul mate was still alive. Napoleon had witnessed the eerie transformation of a soul mark after a person’s other half died. The red lettering slowly morphed into black like ash on the skin. The living partner was often never the same again.

Napoleon grew to think of his soul mate infrequently during the later years of the war. He briefly wondered whether Illya Kuryakin had joined the fight on the Eastern Front.

It now seemed doubtful that they would ever meet and perhaps it would be better if they didn’t. Napoleon was not the same person he had once been. He had grown into a colder and more callous version of himself. There was no longer room for another person in his life. The only person Napoleon was interested in serving now was himself.

After the war Napoleon became a highly skilled art thief. He kept a secret vault in Switzerland and he became accomplished in feats of seduction and manipulation. He was adept at stealing masterpieces and hearts alike. Napoleon now only thought of his soul mate whenever a bed partner curiously traced the mark on his side. He would shiver at their touch and force himself to quell the innate feeling of wrongness that it produced. Napoleon would distract them while he ignored the unsettling sense of betrayal that caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise unpleasantly.

He spent years in a glorious haze of pleasure and debauchery. He refused to acknowledge the hollow feeling in his chest that accompanied his lifestyle. It was the niggling sense that he had overlooked something vitally important to his wellbeing.

Then the CIA captured him and lured him into a sentence that stripped him of his dignity but allowed him to enjoy a parody of freedom. He was a caged bird that had merely been moved to a larger enclosure. 

‘I should have known your soul mate would be a fucking pinko,’ Sanders had snarled the first time he learned of Napoleon’s soul mark.

Napoleon raised his chin and curled his hands into fists beneath the desk. He found himself fighting against the blazing protective urge that had lain dormant for years and was now trying to expand inside his rib cage. Sanders observed Napoleon’s usually infuriatingly sanguine expression transform with a smirk.

‘You better learn how to hide that, Solo. Otherwise someone will find a way to use it against you. Rumour has it that the KGB is currently experimenting with soul marks and their telepathic properties. Sick bastards. They’d experiment on anything if it gave them an edge.’

Years later on a mission in Berlin, Napoleon sped through the streets in a tiny car with Gaby Teller at the wheel while a Russian giant pursued them both with grim determination. Napoleon watched as the man gripped the bumper of the car and actually tried to halt the moving vehicle using his brute strength.

‘He’s trying to stop the car,’ Napoleon said in baffled amazement.

‘Why don’t you take a shot at him?’ Gaby Teller asked tersely as the car wheels began to skid.

Napoleon looked into the man’s clenched face and saw pale blue eyes staring back at him. He felt something flutter and unfurl inside his chest. Longing wove between Napoleon’s ribs and wrapped itself around his heart.

_Oh. It’s you._

‘Somehow it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do,’ Napoleon murmured in a dazed tone.

*

Soul mate bonds weren’t always the fairy tale experience that romance novels and popular movies liked to depict. Not everyone is born with a soul mate for one thing and, although it is rare, it was always possible that a person’s soul mate might have someone else’s name imprinted on their skin. Which was horribly depressing for everyone involved and yet another reason why Napoleon thought soul mates were more trouble than they were worth.

Napoleon briefly considered that he might be Illya Kuryakin’s soul mate and before he could stop himself a wild burst of delight erupted in his body at the thought. It was a traitorous thought and one that quickly evaporated when Napoleon met Illya again under the watchful gaze of their handlers and Illya promptly tried to kill him.

‘Don’t kill your partner on your first day,’ Illya’s handler advised in a cold tone. Illya begrudgingly stopped strangling Napoleon.

‘What does that mean?’ Napoleon gasped.

It meant that Napoleon was stuck with his soul mate who apparently already had an overwhelming hatred for him. Some people have all the luck.

Perhaps it wasn’t prudent for Napoleon to bait Illya about his parents. He did not need to look at Illya’s file to know that Illya’s childhood years had been less than pleasant.

The many nights Napoleon had awoken as a child to a corrosive pain creeping down his side told him more than he wanted to know about Illya’s formative years.

Anxiety twined like a snake around Napoleon’s throat at the thought of a much younger Illya longing for a father who had been banished to the desolate wastelands of Siberia, while caring for a mother unable to adjust to a new life of penury.

Napoleon tried not to be bothered by the fact that Illya clearly found him irritating at best and loathsome at worst.

He ignored the tugging sensation in his stomach whenever Illya entered the room.

He knocked back the yearning to befriend Illya. He pushed aside the compulsion to ask Illya a myriad of questions about his life and childhood, knowing that his curiosity would only be rewarded with a scathing reply or possibly another headlock.

As Napoleon spent more time in Illya’s presence he felt the insidious desire to make Illya happy grow stronger with each passing day.

When Illya’s father’s watch was stolen, Napoleon felt Illya’s anguish and fury stir inside his own chest. As Gaby scowled at them both as they bickered, Napoleon found himself tying not to concentrate on the tingling itch of his soul mate mark that, in the face of Illya’s distress, had flared to life against his skin.

Once again acting contrary to his own common sense and self-interest (which was really very unlike Napoleon), he found himself contacting the few informants he still had in Rome as soon he returned to his hotel room. Napoleon described Illya’s father’s battered watch and instructed his contacts to search for it. He promised a substantial reward if it was found.

Napoleon became convinced that meeting his soul mate had transformed him into a monumental idiot. Napoleon grew increasingly secure in this conviction when Gaby’s Uncle Rudi was torturing him and he found himself thinking that his one regret was being unable to retrieve Illya’s father’s watch.

As excruciating pulses of electricity wracked his body and blood started to trickle from his nose, Napoleon recognised a new sensation starting to wrench his consciousness. It was like the resistant pressure of a magnet pressing gently against his awareness. As the pain peaked and subsided with fresh bursts of electricity, Napoleon felt the unfamiliar pressure flex and adjust like a force field.

He opened his eyes against the harsh white glare of the single swinging light bulb and saw Illya standing behind Rudi. In Napoleon’s disorientated state he thought that Illya looked like an avenging angel. The foreign pressure throbbed and faded. Relief simmered in his veins.

‘You doing okay, Cowboy?’

Illya silently watched as Napoleon strapped Rudi to the chair. Illya’s hands were shaking and Napoleon did not think he could be trusted to not snap Rudi’s neck if given the chance. Not that it would be such a loss.

‘I thought I found all your trackers.’

Illya averted his gaze from Napoleon’s face and shifted it to Rudi who was struggling against the straps that bound him to the electric chair. Illya’s hands became tight fists against his sides.

‘You did,’ Illya replied, ‘just not the ones in your shoes.’ 

At the end of the mission, Napoleon searched both shoes. He removed the soles and stripped back the leather lining but he could find no trace of the tracking device.

While sprinting through the narrow corridors of the Vinceguerra’s island lair, Napoleon felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. He felt possessed by instinct. He turned around and traced his steps back until he came across a henchman cowering against the wall. The man raised his hands to protect his face and as Napoleon prowled towards him he spied a battered watch strapped to the man’s wrist.

‘Huh,’ Napoleon said to himself. He tucked his prize into his pocket.

Napoleon felt the strange current quiver in his bones once more when Alexander Vinceguerra attacked him with a crow bar. His skin tingled and his soul mark flamed. However, Napoleon was understandably distracted by the sight of both the gun pointing at his head and Illya’s remarkable act of hurling a motorcycle at Alexander Vinceguerra, so he did not pause to analyse the sensation.

Then the mission was over and Napoleon didn’t know whether to be more upset at the prospect that he may never see Illya again, or the fact that Illya had been ordered to kill Napoleon and he was likely to follow through on these instructions. Napoleon found himself seriously questioning his own sanity when he saw Illya reach for his gun and his first instinct was not to reciprocate, but was instead to give Illya his father’s watch back before he died.

Napoleon felt the bright spark of Illya’s relief and joy diffuse through his own body as he strapped on his father’s watch. With a sudden jolt of recognition, Napoleon realised what the peculiar magnetic current had been all along.

Napoleon wasn’t sure whether sharing a telepathic connection with his unrequited soul mate was supposed to make him feel better or worse about the situation.

When Waverly cheerfully announced that their mismatched trio was going to become a permanent fixture they all had varying reactions. Illya scowled, Gaby looked mildly surprised, and Napoleon tried to tamp down on the unwelcome rush of elation that spread through his chest alongside a dawning sense of horror. 

Napoleon bitterly found himself thinking that the universe certainly had a sick sense of humour. 

*

Napoleon stalked back into their tiny apartment in Kotor in an irritable state. It was humid, he was tired, and he had spent the entire morning interrogating every shopkeeper in the town but to no avail.

Illya was playing a game of chess by himself at the kitchen table while Gaby sat next to him, drinking tea and flicking through a French _Vogue_ magazine that Napoleon had already read the night before. Their quarters seemed cramped once Napoleon entered the kitchen. He leaned against the kitchen bench and crossed his arms petulantly.

‘Where have you been?’ Gaby asked without looking up. ‘You’ve been gone for hours.’

‘We thought you might have walked passed a mirror and gotten distracted. Like a bird or small dog,’ Illya drawled.

He had looked up from his chess game and was smiling smugly at Napoleon. Napoleon hated that even when Illya was being obnoxious, the sight of his smile still caused Napoleon’s heartbeat to fumble.

‘I can understand why you would think that I might be enamoured by my own reflection, Peril,’ Napoleon replied. He pointedly ignored the way in which Illya and Gaby rolled their eyes in unison. ‘But I was actually on a very important errand.’

‘Which was?’ Gaby asked lazily as she flicked a page.

‘Do not even think about that one,’ Illya commented as he peered over Gaby’s shoulder to examine the dress she was pondering over. ‘I doubt that shade of fuchsia will last another season.’

‘I agree,’ she replied solemnly, ‘but I think it’s made in black too. What am I saying? Of course it is. It’s couture. If I pay enough they can make it whatever colour I want.’

‘Then by all means,’ Illya said with an approving wave of his hand.

Napoleon watched their exchange with a blend of affection and growing irritation.

‘As I was saying,’ Napoleon announced loudly, ‘I was planning on treating you both to a delicious meal tonight but I can’t find half of the ingredients I need. I cannot make baeckeoffe without juniper berries or, at the very least, a French chardonnay.’

‘Then make something else,’ Gaby replied slowly as if Napoleon were being particularly dense.

‘Or make dish without berries and overly expensive wine,’ Illya suggested unhelpfully.

Illya was frowning, as if the notion of buying an exorbitantly priced wine solely to add to food offended his socialist sensibilities.

‘We’re not peasants, Peril,’ Napoleon sighed. ‘I can’t make baeckeoffe properly without good chardonnay.’

In an effort to appease his irritability, Napoleon made himself a coffee. He could feel Illya’s eyes on his back.

He retreated to the sitting room to seethe in peace. He dropped to the armchair and glowered out the window at the gathering dark clouds, which were rather apropos to his mood. Eventually the clouds ruptured and a torrential rainfall blurred his view of the medieval town.

In truth, Napoleon was not upset about the ingredients. He had slept poorly the night before, plagued as he was by nightmares featuring electric chairs and the red Cyrillic of his soul mark morphing into inky black lettering. The emptiness Napoleon had felt at the sight of his soul mark transforming terrified him. He closed his eyes and tried to dispel the image. Eventually the rainfall whitewashed his thoughts and Napoleon slipped into a hazy, dreamless sleep.

When he woke up he was startled by the sight of Illya standing before him, his blond hair plastered wetly to his forehead and an expensive bottle of chardonnay in his left hand. He was dripping rainwater onto the rug. Napoleon raised his eyebrows in surprise. Illya avoided Napoleon’s gaze awkwardly.

‘It is still your turn to make dinner,’ Illya said as he handed a dumbstruck Napoleon the bottle. As if that explained anything at all.

Illya retreated to the kitchen hurriedly, leaving Napoleon to stare at the bottle of wine in his hands. It was a good vintage and undoubtedly costly.

After an admittedly delicious dinner, Illya fiddled with the radio in the sitting room while Gaby and Napoleon washed the dishes. Gaby stood on her toes and whispered into Napoleon’s ear, ‘He has a contact here in Kotor. I think he thought you looked sad so he called in a favour.’

Napoleon struggled to keep his face impassive but he smiled nonetheless. _Don’t even go there_ , he warned himself. 

The strains of Stravinsky filtered through the small kitchen and Gaby left Napoleon’s side to go and instruct Illya to find another station. Napoleon trailed his fingers through the soapy water in the sink and tried to stop to slow, undeniable unravelling of his resistance to Illya’s personal brand of belligerent charm.

*

Two months after what Napoleon had taken to referring to in his mind as the Chardonnay Catastrophe, the trio travelled to Dublin to investigate a burgeoning black market in unexploded landmines that had been unearthed after the war. Two landmines had been already been detonated in the London Underground and Waverly was becoming antsy. 

The mission was rather humdrum and conventional— meaning Illya had threatened a few people within hours of arriving, Napoleon had infiltrated a seemingly impenetrable safe hold, and Gaby had orchestrated their success from afar. The black market had been quickly disbanded.

Two days in Dublin produced the arrest of three visiting diplomats, the acquisition of one black eye on Napoleon’s part (perhaps it had been ill-advised to taunt the German diplomat’s hulking henchman), and the three of them eventually being able to indulge in a celebratory drink at The Brazen Head. 

The pub was too homely for Napoleon’s taste but he could appreciate the crackling fire, the gold-washed lighting, and the good-humoured atmosphere fostered by the pub’s many patrons steadily edging their way, one pint at a time, towards utter drunkenness.

Gaby rose from their booth to order another round of drinks and Napoleon watched with amusement as a tall, dark-haired man approached her. They had to shout over the din of the crowd but snatches of conversation floated towards Illya and Napoleon. The man had challenged her to a game of pool. Gaby surveyed the man before her with tolerant amusement. Her eyes were bright.

‘Should we help?’ Illya asked hesitantly. He looked ready to spring from the booth and wrestle the man into a headlock.

Napoleon restrained himself from rolling his eyes but only just. Illya’s version of help would probably result in Gaby’s admirer receiving a broken nose and them all being forcibly removed from the pub, which had happened before on more than one occasion.

‘No, Peril. I doubt she would appreciate your gallantry and we both know she’s more than capable of handling herself.’

It was true. As far as Napoleon was aware, Gaby had at least two knives concealed in her clothing at any given time. Any man who dared to lay a hand on her was just as likely to lose it. The thought made Napoleon feel strangely proud.

A gathering cluster of patrons surrounded Gaby and the stranger as they started their game. Napoleon and Illya drifted over with their drinks and joined the crowd. The terms were that if Gaby’s opponent won then Gaby would disclose her name. If Gaby won then her rival was obliged to buy the entire pub a round of drinks, which at least explained Gaby’s eager gaggle of drunken supporters.

Unsurprisingly, Gaby wielded her cue stick with the grace and precision of a weapon. Napoleon thought her adversary seemed rather distracted. The way he was eyeing Gaby was rather hungry, although this was not unusual. Gaby was rarely short of admirers. With a tilted head, Napoleon regarded the man. He was attractive, with strong features, although he was rather too dark for Napoleon’s taste. Napoleon had grown rather partial to blonds, or at least one blond in particular.

Gaby demolished her opponent within twenty minutes and the crowd exploded with jubilation. Napoleon was pushed aside by the gathering of very inebriated Irishmen who rushed to hoist a laughing Gaby onto their shoulders in celebration. She soared above the crowd, illuminated by the light of the fire like a pagan relic.

Napoleon stumbled slightly and Illya wrapped a hand around Napoleon’s forearm to steady him. Napoleon felt the charged jolt of the contact throughout his entire body. His soul mark tingled. He met Illya’s eyes and Illya dropped his hand immediately. He raised it to rub absentmindedly over his heart.

Napoleon turned away to see Gaby being restored to solid ground. Surprisingly, she gave her defeated opponent her name anyway and held out her hand. The lines of the man’s face transformed with wonder. He held out his right hand to shake hers and Napoleon could distinguish the unmistakable cursive scrawl of a soul mark etched along his heart line. _Gabriella Teller_.

With shaking hands, Gaby unfastened the gold swing bangle that Napoleon had given her (originally pilfered from an unforgivably rude viscountess while on a mission in Kent), and exposed her upturned wrist. Red sloping letters curved against her skin, proclaiming her soul mate’s name to be _Michael Harrington_.

Napoleon glanced towards Illya and found that Illya was already looking at him. His expression was unreadable. Napoleon looked away first.

Ironically, Gaby’s soul mate was an MI5 agent who had been instructed to tail the three of them on their mission. For the rest of the night Gaby’s eyes barely left Michael’s face. Napoleon had never seen her look so happy.

Beneath the obligatory layers of joy and elation that he felt for Gaby, Napoleon’s heart twinged.

Illya and Napoleon walked back to the hotel alone, leaving Gaby and Michael to stare adoringly at each other by the fireside.

When Illya crossed the street before Napoleon, he felt the current of the soul bond stretch and ping against his skin like a taut rubber band. He hurried to catch up. Their arms brushed once as they walked through the hotel doors and Napoleon felt fire simmer across the surface of his skin.

‘Care for a drink, Peril?’ Napoleon asked as he gestured towards the elevator. ‘It’s been a big night.’

In Napoleon’s hotel room, Illya stood rigidly by the window as Napoleon fixed them both drinks. He poured himself a scotch from the decanter on the dressing table and fished out the bottle of Illya’s preferred brand of Moskovskaya vodka that he always made sure to keep handy.

‘You know my favourite vodka,’ Illya remarked in a surprised tone as Napoleon handed him the glass. He sounded pleased.

Napoleon memorised everything about Illya but he thought that this was information that was better kept to himself.

‘I have eyes, Peril,’ Napoleon replied archly as he took a sip of his own scotch. ‘I try to use them. I find it helps in this line of work.’

They sat in the armchairs by the window overlooking St Stephen’s Green and watched the city lights twinkle distantly. Napoleon was unnervingly aware of the bed mere feet away and tried to push the thought from his mind.

‘I imagine we won’t see Gaby for at least a few days,’ Napoleon observed. ‘What do they call it in Russia? In America they call it “soul mate reunion fever”, which I’ve always thought makes it sound rather like an infection, something venereal in nature perhaps.’

Illya laughed and Napoleon internally thrilled at the sound.

‘The translation is not perfect,’ Illya replied softly, ‘but in Russia they call it “heart’s embrace” when two soul mates meet.’

Napoleon pointedly ignored the ache in his chest as he replied, ‘Hmm, now that’s rather more romantic.’

Illya shrugged. ‘It is the Russian way,’ he responded dryly.

Napoleon poured both himself and Illya a finger of vodka and held up his glass.

‘здоровье,’ Napoleon announced in perfectly accented Russian as they clinked glasses. _To your health!_

Illya’s lips quirked as he returned the phrase and Napoleon tried to focus on the burn of vodka against his throat.

‘Did you learn Russian during war?’ Illya asked curiously as Napoleon poured another drink. ‘Also, are you trying to get me drunk, Cowboy?’

‘We’re rejoicing, Peril,’ Napoleon replied as he passed Illya his glass. ‘Embrace the spirit of celebration.’

Napoleon was aware that he probably shouldn’t be drinking so much around Illya, but if any night called for pitiful drunken indulgence it was tonight.

‘Where did you learn Russian?’ Illya asked persistently.

‘I learned it as a child,’ Napoleon finally admitted begrudgingly. ‘I was always very precocious.’

Illya raised an eyebrow in a veiled gesture of mild surprise. Napoleon longed to be as self-contained after consuming so much vodka.

‘It is unusual language choice for small child,’ Illya observed quietly.

Napoleon sighed and swirled the clear liquid in his glass. The conversation was beginning to cut too close to the bone for his liking.

‘As I just said, I was an extremely gifted and talented child— traits which I have obviously carried through into my adult life as I’m sure you have observed.’

Illya scoffed and Napoleon felt temporarily safe from his prying line of questioning.

‘Talent for hubris, I think, Cowboy’ Illya replied skeptically.

‘Don’t be rude, Peril. I’m a delight.’

There was a beat of silence between them and then Napoleon asked impulsively, ‘What do you make of Gaby’s soul mate?’

Illya frowned at his glass. ‘I do not like that he was following us. But Gaby seems happy, which means I am happy. 

Napoleon was amused by the expression of pained acceptance on Illya’s face. Illya was not one to warm to people easily, which was something that Napoleon shouldn’t find so damned endearing.

‘What of your soul mate, Peril?’ Napoleon heard himself ask masochistically.

Napoleon immediately regretted the question as soon as it was voiced. There was no way that Illya’s answer would inspire any reaction in Napoleon other than a strong desire to dive headfirst from the window. 

Illya’s mouth twisted. He looked agonised.

‘Not that it really matters, I suppose,’ Napoleon continued to speak against his better judgement, ‘As someone who cherishes their independence, I personally think soul mates aren’t everything they are made out to be.’ 

Illya narrowed his eyes at Napoleon. ‘You might change your mind if you meet your soul mate, Cowboy.’

Napoleon swallowed the remainder of his vodka and placed it on the windowsill with a clatter. 

‘I don’t have one,’ he lied boldly. 

Several moments passed as Illya stared intently at his glass before raising it to his lips and swallowing. He closed his eyes against the burn and leaned forward to pour more vodka. Illya did not meet Napoleon’s eyes as he handed him his glass.

Napoleon swallowed the contents of the glass immediately. A warning instinct sparked at the back of his mind but he ignored it.

‘What about your soul mate, Peril?’ Napoleon pressed on unwisely.

Illya avoided Napoleon’s gaze and stared out the window. Napoleon could not drag his eyes away from the marble lines of Illya’s throat or the way his hand rubbed against his heart compulsively, as if he were soothing a burn. Something ignited in Napoleon’s consciousness.

‘Don’t tell me your soul mark is etched over your heart, Peril,’ Napoleon drawled with feigned amazement. ‘How delightfully cliché.’

Napoleon was far too drunk to be having this conversation. He suspected that he was beginning to sneer and he hated himself for it. Illya’s cheeks were red and his hands were beginning to quiver. The sight made Napoleon feel as if his heart were being scraped from his chest.

‘I’m sorry, Peril,’ Napoleon said sincerely, ‘I don’t mean to be such an ass. I’ve had too much to drink. I hope you find someone who makes you happy one day.’

Napoleon meant it, despite everything. Napoleon was inherently selfish but he couldn’t begrudge his soul mate the chance to find happiness, the kind of luminary joy that Gaby now possessed, even if it meant that Illya didn’t find that happiness with Napoleon.

Illya met Napoleon’s gaze unflinchingly.

‘My soul mate is dead.’

Napoleon’s breath evaporated from his lungs. Napoleon had imagined that whatever Illya had to say about his soul mate couldn’t possibly make him feel worse than he already did. He was wrong.

‘Christ, Illya,’ Napoleon murmured, ‘I’m sorry. For once, I don’t know what to say.’

What was the etiquette surrounding consoling your own soul mate on the loss of their soul mate? Napoleon didn’t know. He fumbled for more words but they passed through his mind like wisps of smoke. 

Illya’s face was impassive but Napoleon could feel the fierce maelstrom of his emotions replicated inside his own chest. He felt like he had swallowed a storm. He felt like he was about to split open. Napoleon’s soul mark scorched.

Napoleon suddenly felt a vicious stab of hatred for Illya’s soul mate. He hated this faceless stranger for dying and leaving Illya alone in the world. He silently willed them back to life so he could kill them again.

‘You don’t need to say anything, Cowboy,’ Illya sighed. He pushed his glass forward. ‘Just pour me another drink.’

*

Napoleon was aware that he was not living up to the role that U.N.C.L.E. had assigned to him. He no longer found it easy to assume the persona of a Casanova profligate who was charged with seducing marks and capturing hearts.

He was permanently altered.

While the thoroughly sated Spanish Countess lay in her bed, Napoleon pushed through the crowded ballroom and burst through the doors that lead out into the walled garden. The swell of orchestral music receded as Napoleon wound through the maze of hedges and carefully pruned shrubbery. He gulped down the cool night air as it washed over his skin. 

Napoleon battled against the nausea that curdled in the pit of his stomach at the memory of his mark tracing the curls of his soul mark while he thrust inside her. The sickly floral scent of roses scorched his throat and Napoleon placed an unsteady hand against the garden wall as he bent forward and retched.

He could feel Illya looming in the shadow of the hedges. Napoleon often thought that having a soul mate was like having a homing device strapped to his heart.

‘Too much champagne, Cowboy?’ Illya asked cautiously.

Napoleon straightened and closed his eyes. He adjusted to the feeling of Illya’s presence, the charged pulse that tugged at the edges of his consciousness, and breathed in slowly.

‘The opposite problem,’ Napoleon replied unevenly, ‘I haven’t had nearly enough to drink.’

Napoleon’s voice was raw. All of his artifice had been peeled back under Illya’s perceptive gaze. He hated it. He wished he could loathe Illya but he knew better than to wish for impossible things.

There was a lull of silence and then Illya observed, ‘You are not the man that everyone thinks you are, Cowboy.’

Napoleon turned around and met Illya’s eyes. The distant golden glow of the ballroom and the cheerful clamour of its inhabitants faded. Napoleon’s skin prickled. Napoleon felt exposed and vulnerable under Illya’s steady gaze.

He was tired of hiding from his own heart.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint, Peril,’ Napoleon responded coolly.

Something in Illya’s expression shifted. He avoided Napoleon’s eyes and settled for fixing his gaze on a cluster of rose bushes in full bloom.

‘I am not disappointed by you, Napoleon,’ Illya said eventually in a quiet voice. 

Napoleon sighed and sat down on the stone bench positioned in front of the rose bushes. Illya sat next to him and their knees brushed together. As was habit now, Napoleon pushed against the hopeful flutter of his own heart. He felt his breathing instinctively slow to align with Illya’s.

Several minutes passed as Napoleon listened to the trickling of a nearby fountain. He noticed that the scent of the roses was no longer suffocating. He could breathe again.

‘Ready to go back inside, Cowboy?’ Illya asked.

Napoleon no longer felt the compulsion to crawl out of his skin. A foreign wash of peacefulness had settled over him as they sat together in silence. He felt so quiet inside; he wanted to steal the feeling and hoard a piece of it forever.

Illya was woven into his very DNA. Napoleon’s cells recognised that Illya was home. He may not be able to have Illya, but perhaps that could be enough. 

‘I’m ready, Peril.’

*

Ever since meeting Illya, Napoleon had been plagued by dreams.

Sometimes they were the most wonderful form of torture. He would dream of Illya’s lips against his throat, Illya’s fingers tracing his skin, and the warm weight of him pressing down as he moved inside Napoleon, dragging him inexorably toward a blissful precipice. After these dreams, Napoleon would wake with damp boxers and fire chasing through his veins.

Other times, Napoleon had nightmares instead. He would dream of the soul-stealing chill of the trenches and the stench of corpses. Or the menacing buzz of an electric chair and Rudi’s gleeful face grinning down at him as his skin sizzled and his heart faltered.

Fear was a corrosive thing. Once it started, it was hard to stop.

In Prague, Napoleon had such a dream and woke gasping for breath. He had dreamt that unknown assailants were cutting his soul mark from his skin with long daggers, and he clutched his side instinctively upon waking, feeling for blood.

He lay in bed for a minute, staring at the ceiling, and waited until the furious pace of his heart eventually subsided. Then he ambled down the hallway and into the kitchen for a glass of water. He passed the small sitting room and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was two o’clock in the morning.

The light was already on in the kitchen and Illya was sitting at the breakfast table with two mugs in front of him. He looked up as Napoleon padded into the kitchen and put a bookmark in the Dostoyevsky novel he was reading.

‘Would you like a drink, Cowboy?’ Illya asked.

The chair scraped against the tiles as Napoleon pulled it out and sat down next to Illya. He pulled the closest mug towards him and inspected its contents. Steam rose from the mug in a fragrant cloud. The drink had clearly just been made.

‘Hot cocoa?’

‘I could not sleep,’ Illya replied with a shrug, ‘sometimes it helps.’

Napoleon really did not need any more reasons to feel more endeared towards Illya than he already was. He raised an eyebrow at Illya as he took a sip. It was good. The sweetness of the drink warmed him to his core.

‘Do you normally drink two mugs in one sitting, Peril? I never took you as someone who indulged in excess.’

Illya scoffed as he took a sip from his own mug. The rigidity of his shoulders gave away his discomfort as he responded, ‘Obviously not. One was for you.’

Napoleon froze as a shivery trickle of horror crawled down his spine. Years of suffering with nightmares during the war had trained Napoleon to sleep silently, but maybe his night terrors were causing him to call out in his sleep. The thought mortified him.

‘I hope I didn’t wake you, Peril,’ Napoleon said cautiously. He kept his eyes fixed on the chipped mug in his hands. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well these past few weeks and my usual antidotes haven’t been working.’

Alcohol and sex were not the miracle cures they once were. Napoleon couldn’t justify overindulging in alcohol every night for the sake of a good night’s sleep. And even more worryingly, the thought of sex with anyone other than Illya made Napoleon’s stomach turn.

‘Do not worry, Cowboy. You do not make noise in your sleep,’ Illya responded softly.

Napoleon sat in bewildered silence, trying to digest this observation. But Illya did not elaborate any further so Napoleon drank from his mug while Illya watched him from the corner of his eye. Napoleon felt as though he were being guarded. The thought made warmth pool in his stomach. 

‘I used to have dreams during the war,’ Napoleon spoke quietly, ‘and after. But recently I keep revisiting Uncle Rudi’s cellar.’

Napoleon had never told anyone about his dreams before. But if he could trust anyone with the information it would be Illya, who unknowingly held all of the hidden parts of Napoleon in his hands.

Illya’s face contorted into a pained expression. Napoleon’s soul mark flickered hotly.

‘I should have got to you sooner. It was my fault you were there for so long.’

Napoleon sighed and ran a hand over his face tiredly. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Peril. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.’

‘Do not say that,’ Illya responded in a low, tense voice. ‘You are not allowed to die, Cowboy.’

Napoleon laughed unexpectedly at the image of Illya trying to ward off death itself through sheer stubbornness. 

‘Fine. I’ll be sure to wait for your permission before I pass through the pearly gates, Peril.’

‘Good,’ Illya replied, utterly serious.

The clock on the mantle ticked monotonously and Napoleon settled into the push-pull pressure of Illya’s presence. Sometimes the connection that bound Napoleon to Illya felt like brushing against a livewire, bright and hot and incendiary, but tonight the tension was gentle. It wrapped around Napoleon like a cocoon and enveloped him in warmth.

‘When I first joined KGB they performed experiments on younger recruits,’ Illya said abruptly, his voice raw.

The pulse between them bristled and tautened like a bowstring.

Illya stared fixedly at the join in the wallpaper as he spoke. There was a note of blank recitation to his tone now, as if he were reading the words from a report.

‘I think they wanted to test the bonds of human nature to see what they could make us do. Sometimes they used electricity.’

In a flash of sick dread, Napoleon recalled the comments Sanders had made all those years ago about KGB experimentation. He felt his chest constrict with horror.

A flood of questions lodged in Napoleon’s throat. For how long had the KGB tortured Illya? What kind of reaction were they hoping to provoke? Was this the real cause of Illya’s bouts of rage? Did the KGB only stop once Illya’s soul mate died?

‘Afterwards I had dreams too. So I understand, Cowboy.’

Napoleon abruptly realised that Illya was imparting this terrible information for the sake of making Napoleon feel less alone. He felt like his chest was about to crack open.

 _I’ve waited my whole life for you_. Napoleon itched to say the words aloud, but it was a selfish urge. It was not Illya’s problem that Napoleon had been stupid enough to fall in love with his own soul mate.

‘I know you do, Peril.’

Napoleon knew in his bones that Illya would not accept a thank you. He had always derided the innate knowingness that other people talked about when it came to soul mates, but he had only recently been able to admit to himself that there might be something to it after all.

‘Let me make you another drink, Peril. And I might put something stronger in it this time.’

They sat together until the rising sun poured through the kitchen window and striped them both in soft golden light. By the time Gaby stumbled into the kitchen tiredly, asking for coffee and complaining about her alarm clock, the hint of a smile had started to curl against Illya’s mouth.

***

The fragile equilibrium that characterised Napoleon’s interactions with Illya finally ruptured in Iceland.

They had been instructed to hunt down the latest hideaway of T.H.R.U.S.H., which promised to contain a treasure trove of nefarious weapon prototypes and papers linking the criminal syndicate to various villainous schemes. Napoleon just wished that they had chosen a lair in a somewhat milder climate. Like a beachside cabin in Barbados, perhaps.

After three hours of hiking over volcanic rock as the cold wind lashed their faces, Illya and Napoleon reached the mouth of the cave that Waverly had marked on their maps.

Ice melded with ancient rock and in the dark Napoleon could distinguish lettering that stretched over the mouth of the cave. Illya shone his torchlight over the messy letters, which looked as if they had been clumsily scrawled with what Napoleon hoped was red paint. _Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’ intrate_ , it read.

‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here,’ Napoleon translated. 

‘Dante’s Inferno,’ Illya affirmed grimly.

‘Lovely,’ Napoleon answered wryly, ‘I always appreciate it when villains give us such a hospitable welcome. And I don’t know about you, Peril, but this dash of culture has certainly brightened my day.’

Illya huffed a silent laugh beside him and Napoleon tried to suppress a smile.

Napoleon pulled out his own torch and directed its beam inside the cave. Walls of ice glimmered in the artificial light, stretching endlessly down a black, twisting passage.

‘A glacier cave,’ Napoleon observed with a weary sigh. ‘Perfect. We’ve truly reached the tenth circle then.’

Napoleon and Illya hesitantly stepped passed the entrance of the cave. The twin beams of their torches illuminated the space, glancing over knife-sharp stalactites and the jewel blue ripples embedded in the frozen walls. It was beautiful, albeit in an eerie and unsettling way. Napoleon tried to push away thoughts of everything that he had ever read about glacier caves, particularly how they were often unstable and prone to collapse.

The temperature was biting and Napoleon could hear his teeth begin to chatter as they progressed through the slippery crevices. They stumbled over chunks of ice and more than once Illya was forced to grab onto the back of Napoleon’s jacket to stop him from sliding too far into the darkness. Napoleon absently wished that he had worn boots with better traction in the soles.

Then, impossibly, their frosty path terminated with the appearance of a locked metal door. Sheets of ice coated the handle and Napoleon had to use the screwdriver that he had stored in his jacket to scrape away the ice from the lock. He picked it, and the door inched open with a damning creak.

Illya and Napoleon exchanged a wary glance. Napoleon could feel Illya’s tension simmer beneath his own skin.

Their torch beams illuminated a maze of corridors that were carved into volcanic rock that glinted with shades of black and grey. Together they moved through the roughly carved passages, opening doors only to find a series of empty rooms.

‘Perhaps they have moved on?’ Napoleon suggested optimistically. He ached for a blanket and a warm drink by the fire.

‘Not likely, Cowboy,’ Illya replied, his breath clouding against his lips, ‘this hideout is too well hidden to abandon. T.H.R.U.S.H. is evil but not stupid.’

Illya inched forward down the corridor and Napoleon felt the protective flare of fear prickle against the back of his neck before he saw the laser sensors.

‘Illya, wait!’ Napoleon gasped. But it was too late.

Alarms screamed with deafening pitch and the walls shuddered as every door in the corridor, including the one they had used to enter the lair, slammed shut.

Illya tensed and turned back towards Napoleon who was preoccupied by the sight of an odorless red gas seeping from the cracks in the rock. Red clouds billowed around them both and Napoleon felt the strength sap from his body as he dropped to the ground. The pulse that linked Napoleon to Illya flickered weakly just before he slipped into unconsciousness.

When Napoleon regained awareness, his first thought was Illya. His next thought was just how much his head throbbed.

Napoleon opened his eyes and registered that he was tied to a chair and his arms were tightly bound behind his back. There was a gag in his mouth. His gaze landed on Illya, who appeared to be strapped down in a similar manner, and momentary relief filtered through his body.

They had been moved to another room, although this one was cavernous in the way that the others had not been. Rivulets of waters trickled down the walls and shadows crept at their feet, cast by the dim light of a single overhanging light bulb. Memory and instinct caused a flicker of anxiety to kindle in Napoleon’s chest at the sight of the swinging bulb.

Unknown figures hunched in cover of the shadows but Napoleon could not make out their faces. Napoleon’s gaze landed upon Illya again and their eyes met.

Upon closer inspection, their mystery assailants had gone to considerably more effort to secure Illya. Multiple steel chains were wrapped around Illya’s chest, pinning his arms to his sides. The chains were connected to an immense granite slab that looked to be the size of a small aircraft. Thick manacles bound Illya’s hands and feet to the slab. Illya was immobile. Not even Houdini himself could escape such an entrapment.

‘It is nice of you to join us, Mr. Solo,’ a voice chimed from the shadows. ‘Emmanuel, untie his gag.’

A particularly gormless looking man with an overgrown moustache emerged from the darkness and reached behind Napoleon’s head to untie his gag. Napoleon licked his lips. His mouth was dry.

‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ Napoleon responded to the faceless voice, ‘I normally pride myself on punctuality.’ 

‘I think we can forgive the lapse, Mr. Solo. After all, the two of you are going to be our guests for quite a long time. I hope you will come to think of us as friends.’

A shiver of unease ghosted across Napoleon’s skin at these words. He could not place the voice’s accent and his eyes strained to make out a face in the darkness. 

The henchman by Napoleon’s side shifted and Napoleon’s gaze flitted back to his face. He tried to tamp down on the ingrained desire to say something impudent. He opened his mouth and failed spectacularly.

‘If we are all going to become such good friends might I offer some advice? Perhaps you should rethink the moustache,’ Napoleon observed insolently, ‘I realise that you are trying to acquire a villainous image but I think you might be overdoing it. You look rather like a monkey that has just escaped captivity.’

Illya’s mouth was also gagged but he emitted a warning grunt that echoed through the cavern.

‘Fuck you,’ the man snarled. He raised a meaty hand and smashed it against the side of Napoleon’s jaw.

Napoleon’s head lolled forward and he spat out a coppery mouthful of blood. He had cut the inside of his mouth with his incisors and now his tongue was coated with the taste.

Napoleon raised his head and eyed the man up and down slowly. ‘No thank you,’ he replied disdainfully, ‘I prefer classically good-looking men. Tall and handsome with features sculpted from marble. You’re really not my type, gormless and ugly as you are.’

The man (Emmanuel, was it?) delivered another shattering blow to Napoleon’s face. He twitched his jaw to check that it wasn’t broken. A wave of rage roiled through Napoleon’s body although he knew it was not his own.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ the henchman clarified spitefully.

Napoleon, perhaps somewhat foolishly, glanced down at his own body and inclined his head to regard the henchman boldly, as if to say: _Have you looked at me? If such a thing were possible, don’t you think I would have done so by now?_

‘Enough, Emmanuel,’ the unidentified voice called out sharply as the henchman pulled back his hand to punch Napoleon again. ‘We want Mr. Solo conscious for this next part.’

Napoleon did not like the sound of that.

‘What did you have in mind?’ he inquired warily.

The faceless figure emerged from the shadows and dread crawled along Napoleon’s skin as he recognised the man standing in front of him. Frederic Wüthrich peered at Napoleon coldly, his grey eyes flickering with malice. His photograph had featured prominently in every debriefing on T.H.R.U.S.H. that Napoleon had ever been forced to sit through.

Frederic Wüthrich was a criminal mastermind with an uncanny imagination for chemical warfare and an unfortunate penchant for torture. He had gained notoriety during the war but managed to elude the forces of international criminal justice, escaping the wrath of the Nuremberg trials altogether by going into hiding. Wüthrich’s status as a malevolent genius had made him a worthy recruit for T.H.R.U.S.H.

There were many uncomfortable similarities between Wüthrich and Rudi, which Napoleon did not care to analyse in his current state of immobility.

‘I have heard so much about you, Mr. Solo. I had hoped that you would be harder to capture. I hate to win the game so easily.’

‘I do hate to disappoint,’ Napoleon replied with false tranquility, ‘perhaps next time I can give you more of a chase.’

Wüthrich’s thin lips parted with a disturbing smile. ‘I am afraid that there is unlikely to be a next time.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘But no matter. I will take my pleasure where I can.’

As Napoleon tried not to ponder the implications of such a statement, a metallic clang reverberated through the cavern as Illya struggled against his chains.

Wüthrich’s smile grew wider and he bared yellowed teeth as he absorbed Illya’s distress. His footsteps echoed as he approached Illya, stopping only when he was inches from Illya’s chest. Illya towered over Wüthrich, but he was a caged bear— fearsome but vulnerable in his incapacity.

‘I think I will deal with you later, Mr. Kuryakin,’ Wüthrich said pensively, his arms folded behind his back. ‘For now my interest lies with your American friend, but you will be an interesting experiment nonetheless.’ Wüthrich tilted his head to regard Illya’s incendiary expression, ‘I am sure you are familiar with such experiments by now, Mr. Kuryakin.’

Illya thrashed against his bindings and Wüthrich emitted a sound of indifferent curiosity as he watched. Napoleon’s soul mark burned at the sight of Illya’s proximity to Wüthrich. Protective desperation charred hot in his stomach. He ached to kill Wüthrich for even contemplating harming Illya.

Wüthrich stalked back towards Napoleon and he felt an undeniable wave of relief at the sight of distance being placed between Wüthrich and Illya, who continued to yank futilely at his manacles. 

‘I have compiled some research on you both,’ Wüthrich commented as he eyed Napoleon up and down idly, ‘And as much as I revel in innovation, I thought it would be interesting for us all if we revisited an old favourite.’

As much as Napoleon was grateful that Wüthrich was not planning to use him as a guinea pig for some new and horrific torture device, he couldn’t help but think that the tried and tested methods of torture were still rather unpleasant.

‘Fetch the machine, Emmanuel,’ Wüthrich instructed calmly.

The henchman had been intently glowering at Napoleon for the past ten minutes, but he dutifully turned around and retreated to the shadows. The cavern settled into an ominous silence and then the painful squeaking of rusted wheels started as Emmanuel wheeled an electric chair into the light.

Before he could stop it, a spike of terror pierced Napoleon’s heart.

The chair was almost identical to Rudi’s, although Napoleon had the horrible suspicion that Wüthrich would have repaired any potential wiring problems. Napoleon glanced at Illya. His face was contorted in horror. Napoleon had never seen Illya look so afraid. 

Napoleon found himself thinking that he did not care if Wüthrich broke him apart piece by piece so long as he didn’t touch Illya.

Napoleon felt the magnetic pulse of Illya’s terror quiver underneath his own skin. The chord that connected them pressed hot into Napoleon’s chest. It was always palpable, but now Napoleon was certain that if his hands were untied then he would be able to reach out and touch it. Napoleon would be able to tug on the chord and follow it back to Illya. He would be able to feel it shudder beneath his hands like a living thing.

Time compressed itself in the moments that it took for Wüthrich’s henchman to transfer Napoleon still in his bindings and attach him to the electric chair. Wires trailed like black snakes across the floor, seeking out an unknown source of power.

For Illya’s sake, Napoleon tried not to let the fear show on his face but he suspected that he was unsuccessful. This was every nightmare brought to life.

Napoleon clenched his teeth so as to not bite his tongue off when the first shock began.

‘Set the dial to one, Emmanuel.’

Every cell in Napoleon’s body was on fire. When the first shock stopped and he was given a momentary reprieve, Napoleon had to remind himself how to breathe.

Metal clanged against rock as Illya struggled against his bindings again. Wüthrich turned to watch him. Illya seethed with a silent ferocity that would strike fear into the hearts of most men. But Wüthrich appeared coldly unconcerned.

‘Shall we try five, Mr. Solo? After all, you are an old hand at this game.’

Napoleon’s vision became whitewashed as his body convulsed. He had done this before. If he was lucky he would lose consciousness soon, but the thought of leaving Illya to suffer Wüthrich’s attentions pulled him back from the edge.

If he were inclined toward religion he would have used his last chance at prayer on Illya.

‘Does this bring back memories for you, Mr. Kuryakin? You don’t seem pleased.’

The electricity stopped and Napoleon slumped in his chair. Even his fingernails ached. He felt drained of the energy necessary to keep his head raised. Perhaps he could close his eyes for just a second.

‘Set it to ten, Emmanuel.’

Knowing he was about to die, Napoleon summoned the energy to look at Illya. He memorised his blue eyes and felt the ribbon of energy intertwining them flare to life, hot and golden. He was barely conscious now but the monstrous sound of metal scraping against rock roused him.

Napoleon opened his eyes fully to witness the incredible sight of Illya ripping off the steel chains that wrapped tightly around his chest. He did so with ease, as if they were nothing more than string. Wüthrich fell to the ground in his effort to scramble away. With a blazing expression, Illya unleashed another display of herculean strength by tearing off the steel manacles that bound his arms and legs to the slab of rock. The manacles clattered to the floor and in the flickering light Napoleon could discern the imprint of Illya’s fists in the steel, like a handprint pressed into soft clay.

Napoleon’s ears were ringing. The chord wrapped tightly around his chest, spreading life through his limbs. Napoleon’s soul mark was aflame.

Illya stood upright and looked down at Wüthrich who was attempting to crawl back into the cover of the shadows. Illya looked like an avenging god in a legend, an effect that was amplified by the chunks of rock slab that were beginning to crumble at his feet and the golden light which illuminated the sharp features of his face. Illya’s jaw twitched and his blue eyes were unforgiving.

Illya strode toward a now quivering Wüthrich, hauled him up by his collar, and promptly snapped his neck. Wüthrich’s lifeless form crumpled to the floor and Illya stalked into the shadows to deliver a similar sentence to Wüthrich’s henchman.

Napoleon closed his eyes in relief. The ringing in his ears was growing louder and he hazily wondered whether the soul bond could transmit sound.

‘Cowboy? Napoleon?’ Illya’s voice was close now and impossibly gentle. ‘Are you okay?’

The chord rippled in Napoleon’s chest and warmth slowly filtered through his veins like red dye in water. He ached for sleep. He felt safe. 

With considerable effort, Napoleon opened his eyes again. ‘You kept that talent up your sleeve, Peril,’ he remarked drowsily, ‘I imagine you have an excellent poker face too.’

Illya released a ragged breath that was drenched in relief. He quickly set to work on unstrapping Napoleon from the chair and helping him to his feet. It soon became apparent that Napoleon could not walk unaided. He was beginning to shiver violently and Illya stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around Napoleon.

‘I could try to carry you,’ Illya said, ‘but I may not make it to cave entrance.’

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. ‘So the super strength was a one time thing then? I had hopes of making you my packhorse. 

Illya’s lips twitched and he looked away. When his eyes met Napoleon’s again, his expression was soft.

‘There were special circumstances, Cowboy.’

In the end they navigated their way through the interminable icy tunnels with Napoleon resting most of his weight against Illya’s broad shoulders. Illya kept stealing glances at Napoleon’s face as if to reassure himself that Napoleon was really alive.

The entire night had been tinged with the surreal quality of a dream, both the good and the bad.

They emerged from the cave entrance and Napoleon greedily breathed in the cold night air. Stars blanketed the sky and swaths of cloud partially obscured the crescent curve of the moon.

Napoleon was beginning to regain his mobility but Illya kept a protective hand curled against Napoleon’s lower back. He refused to allow Napoleon to return his jacket, despite the cool temperature. Napoleon felt strangely peaceful considering the circumstances.

‘What _was_ that, Illya?’ Napoleon asked in a dazed tone, but his words were drowned out by the droning whir of a helicopter that landed on the rocky perch above their heads.

Napoleon fell asleep during the helicopter ride, his aching body and exhaustion warring with his curiosity, and he woke up as they landed with his head propped against Illya’s shoulder.

Upon Illya’s insistence, Napoleon patiently sat through several medical examinations. He then gave Waverly an abbreviated report of the mission over the phone. He blithely removed Illya’s inhuman display of strength from the narrative, thinking that the last thing Illya needed was more testing. Illya’s eyes remained fixed on Napoleon’s face as Napoleon delivered his account, first to Waverly and then to Gaby.

Illya’s shoulders were unyielding as they caught a taxi to their hotel in Reykjavík.

Napoleon cast an expectant glance in Illya’s direction as they walked up the stairs and Illya silently followed him into Napoleon’s hotel room.

Early morning light filtered through the wide windows. The sheets had been changed and folded back and fresh towels had been arranged at the foot of the bed in neat squares of fabric. Illya stood hesitantly by the doorway, his stance wary, so Napoleon busied himself with the pretense of making coffee for them both, allowing Illya some time to settle.

He could feel the ribbon of energy flex between them, stronger than ever, as Illya moved behind Napoleon to open the window slightly.

Napoleon placed their plain white mugs on the thick window ledge and came to stand beside Illya. They watched as a choir of sea birds circled over the water, their calls made indistinct by the wind. Fishing trawlers bobbed in the harbor and the light coated the water in sheaths of gold.

Napoleon could feel the anxious flutter of Illya’s heartbeat doubling in his chest.

‘What was that, Illya?’

Illya was avoiding Napoleon’s gaze determinedly. His fingers curled around the window ledge tightly.

‘You will hate me if I tell you.’

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. ‘I can promise you I won’t.’

There was nothing Illya could do to make Napoleon hate him. Even in the early days, before they had met, when Napoleon had longed to loathe the faceless specter who was carved into his skin, he had not been able to. Then once they met, Napoleon realised what a futile longing hatred was in the face of someone such as Illya.

Illya’s brows furrowed with patent disbelief and his heartbeat quickened. But when he turned to face Napoleon, Illya’s expression was carefully impassive. A spy’s mask. Napoleon recognised the protective mechanism and his chest burned at the sight.

He resisted the urge to trail his fingers against his own soul mark, born of a misplaced desire to offer comfort however he could.

‘I have always been stronger than most,’ Illya began uncertainly, his voice low. ‘When I was younger, KGB tried to use this to their advantage.’

‘Through experimentation,’ Napoleon supplied quietly.

Illya’s apprehension curled in Napoleon’s gut.

Illya was quiet for a moment before he replied, ‘Yes. KGB spent years testing agents and their soul marks, trying to unlock telepathic abilities and hidden strengths that would emerge only in extreme circumstances.’ Illya swallowed audibly before continuing, ‘Many died. Testing often did not achieve anything at all. But sometimes it did. 

A thread of comprehension was beginning to unravel in Napoleon’s mind, but he kept quiet. He ignored the desperate glimmer of hope that trembled in his ribcage as Illya started to unbutton his shirt.

In crimson letters scribed across his heart was Illya’s soul mark. _Napoleon Solo_.

Napoleon was breathless. Elation surged through his body. Illya frowned and absently rubbed a hand over his heart, no doubt confused by Napoleon’s emotions.

‘If you hate me then I understand,’ Illya murmured, his voice raw. ‘I hate myself for hurting you when we first met. I had been trained for years by KGB to react with aggression to any mention of your name.’ Illya dragged in a deep breath and looked away from Napoleon, his expression ashamed. ‘KGB tried to train agents to kill their soul mates, to see if they could make us do it. They wanted to see how far we could be pushed. They wanted to prove their dominion over everything, even human nature. When I first met you I acted on instinct. I was the monster they had trained me to be.’

Napoleon could not bear Illya’s agonised expression. An unexpectedly dark coil of fury lodged in Napoleon’s chest at the thought of everything Illya had been forced to endure.

He wanted to reach out and touch Illya. He longed to hold Illya close and cradle him in his arms. But he knew that Illya would not be touched while he was lashing himself with the guilt he wore like a permanent manacle.

Napoleon’s hand flew unbidden to curl in his shirt, his fingers brushing lightly over his own soul mark.

‘I do not expect anything of you, Napoleon. But I thought you should know.’

Napoleon waited until Illya met his gaze and he then spoke softly and clearly, ‘You do not need my forgiveness, Illya, but you have it nonetheless. I don’t blame you for anything you have been forced to endure.’

A flush swept over Illya’s cheeks but the stone rigidity of his shoulders loosened, settling into something like relief and acceptance. He nodded and his expression was self-conscious.

Napoleon was Illya’s soul mate. Napoleon turned the thought over and over in his mind like a jewel worn smooth by the sea. Napoleon let out a breathless laugh and Illya frowned, his shoulders hunched protectively. 

‘Darling Illya, I am afraid it is you who will hate me.’

‘Never,’ Illya replied instinctively. There was an obstinate set to his jaw although he was clearly perplexed by the term of endearment.

Napoleon started to unbutton his own shirt and he absorbed the way Illya’s eyes lingered on the newly revealed skin of Napoleon’s throat and chest, his gaze hungry and worshipful. Napoleon pushed aside the fabric to reveal the elegant curls of his own soul mark.

Illya’s lips parted and his breathing hitched. His hands were trembling by his sides.

‘I am yours, Illya, if you will have me. I always have been.’

The words that Napoleon had once thought would have to be ripped from his heart flowed easily and with the sweetness of honey. Napoleon had spent decades trying to convince himself that he didn’t want his soul mate, that he didn’t crave Illya, but now that he had the chance to lay claim to this bright spark of happiness Napoleon planned to never let Illya go.

With deliberate gentleness, Illya reached out and grasped Napoleon’s hands. Napoleon shivered at the warmth of Illya’s skin against his own. The pulse of energy enveloped them tightly. Illya’s shock and delight poured into Napoleon’s body with the dizzying warmth of the finest whisky. Napoleon had never felt so happy.

Illya turned Napoleon’s hands so his palms were facing upwards. Crescent cuts marred his palms where Napoleon had dug his nails into his skin in between bouts of electric shocks. Illya gently swiped his thumb over one of the cuts and raised Napoleon’s hand to his face so he could kiss his palm. Napoleon curved his fingers against Illya’s jaw and Illya closed his eyes.

Napoleon lowered his hand and trailed it against the golden stubble of Illya’s throat and the curve of his collarbone. He held Illya’s gaze steadily as he rested his hand against Illya’s heart, over the delicate curls of Napoleon’s own name imprinted into Illya’s skin. Illya shivered beautifully and Napoleon could feel Illya’s heartbeat pulsing against his palm and synchronising with Napoleon’s own.

When their lips met, Napoleon briefly thought about what a fool he had been to try and deny the inevitability of Illya. But this self-recrimination was quickly swept away by the rough texture of Illya’s hands cradling Napoleon’s jaw so gently, the delectable slide of Illya’s tongue against his own, the delight of their shared breaths, and the unerring sense, deep in his bones, that Napoleon was home.

'объятие сердца,' Illya whispered against Napoleon's lips. _Heart's embrace_.

Napoleon smiled slowly and pulled Illya in for another kiss.


End file.
